


The Moments In-between

by GenderfluidAJ



Series: Good Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Like lots of it, Love, M/M, Realising they're in love, just a warning, one chapter mentions rape, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-05-13 01:50:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenderfluidAJ/pseuds/GenderfluidAJ
Summary: The moments before falling completely in love. The brush of fingers, a gentle touch on the arm. 6000 years of love





	1. Warm blankets a coffee and a good friend

1743

Crowley put his hands in his pockets, letting the silence from the conversation wash over him with the rain. Aziraphale on the other hand shivered, his clothes soaked to the skin. He hadn't been dressed for the rain, he didn't have a coat.  
“Come on Angel, you'll freeze out here.” he said looking at the angel from behind his glasses.  
“It's a long way back to my shop, I'll only get wetter.”  
“Stay at mine, this storm has no intention of passing tonight.” he replied, looking for a reaction from him. Aziraphale, for his part, looked like he wanted to say something but decided against it. He looked like he was tossing the pros and cons of the situation between his hands and, upon looking at Crowley's concerned features, suddenly lost hold of all the cons.  
“That's probably a smart idea my dear.” he said, wringing his hands. Crowley smiled before turning away and walking to the road, trying not to turn an ankle on the cobblestones.  
When they reached the road Crowley raised a hand and let out a sharp whistle, the nearest carriage slowing before eventually stopping in front of them. The horses brayed as Crowley opened the door, letting Aziraphale in first before pulling himself in.  
“Where to gents?”  
“Berkley Square, Mayfair. Thanks.” he said before pulling the door closed and sitting opposite Aziraphale who was shivering against the carriage wall. He closed his eyes and listened to the horses hooves beating against the road, he was drawn out of his trance by Crowley.  
“You're freezing Angel.” he said as he placed a warm hand on Aziraphale's leg as the carriage jolted. “Give me your hands.” he said, gesturing at his hands that were tucked in his pockets. Aziraphale held them out and Crowley took them.  
Aziraphale let out a small gasp at the warmth that came from the demon.  
“How in hell are you that warm-”  
“Hell exactly.” Crowley said with a wry smile.  
“It is November, you shouldn't be that warm.” he said, looking at the demon who only smiled at him.  
“I am over 5000 years old and you get stuck on the fact that I am warm.” he said with that grin of his that made Aziraphael feel things that he didn't have a name for. And he wasn't sure he was able to acknowledge them anyway.  
“No, I got stuck on the fact that you are ungodly warm in November.” Aziraphale replied, his voice breathy at the little contact they had shared. A loud crash of lightening made them let go with a start.  
“Fucking hell.”  
“My lord.”  
The thunder that followed made the horses jump and the whole carriage rocked off its wheels for a second that felt like an eternity. They were quiet for a while as the carriage righted itself. After a while they reached their stop and Crowley got up, sending a smile at the angel before opening the door.  
Crowley's house was made from old bricks and plaster. The building had cost him a temptation and a pound sterling. He had happily paid both. He had had the house since the 1500's and had revamped it a few times when needs must.  
He pulled out the key and unlocked the old creaky door, pushing it open and gesturing for Aziraphale to go inside before him.  
“After you.”  
Aziraphale had never been in the house before and was enjoying looking at the little things that made the place Crowley's home. The several black and red coats hanging by the door, one of them was formal with gold embroidery around the collar. Aziraphale knew that he wanted to see him in that at some point, but they never had the occasion.  
There were some books littered around, the titles drew his attention.  
“I thought you didn't read.”  
“Gifts.” came Crowley's easy reply as he undid his coat and threw it over the back of one of the chairs. He didn't want to admit that they had been for Aziraphale, that he had meant to put them away but had been happy seeing them scattered around his house as though the angel had put them there.  
He walked over to the fireplace and squatted down, grabbing the fire lighting kit and setting an easy spark into the kindling with a practised ease. He didn't need to know how to do it, he could just miracle it into existence, but it was useful. He stayed squatting, just absorbing the heat as he fed the fire more logs, getting it to a dull roar.  
He heard one of the leather on the chairs creak as Aziraphale sat down and leant back. Crowley turned and smiled at the sight of the angel, his angel, comfy on his favourite chair. Yes he had a favourite chair.  
“Quite comfy?” he asked as he took off his glasses and put them on the mantelpiece, standing as Aziraphale hummed a reply. Crowley turned and leant against the wall, taking in the sight. For the first time, that he had seen, Aziraphale looked tired, his eyes closed and curled into a loose ball. The angel had taken his shoes off and kicked them towards the fire in an attempt to get them to dry, Crowley reached down and put them closer to the warmth of the fire.  
He walked away, picking up his coat and hanging it with the others by the door. He stared in the mirror for a moment, he needed to be alone for a second before he started something he might regret. With a grounding breath he grabbed a blanket from the side. He had gotten the blanket during the 1300's, it was the only thing he had kept from that century. A woman had asked him to save her child which had been wrapped in the blanket. Both she and the baby had died within 24 hours, leaving him with a blanket. He felt obliged to keep it.  
He walked back into the main room and walked over to the chair Aziraphale was curled up on, draping the blanket over his shoulders. The angel stirred slightly, turning to look at Crowley.  
“Crowley-”  
“Shh, just rest.” Crowley said before sitting down on the other chair. He watched as the angel settled back down. He seemed at ease in Crowley's house, he was glad.  
One of Crowley's lesser known hobbies was that he was a very good artist, that was how he had befriended Leonardo Da Vinci after all. He had many, many notebooks with his drawings. He could have done it professionally, but he was still embarrassed by his skill. Crowley reached for a notebook and started to draw, half of the drawings had been of Aziraphale throughout time. He would often draw things he remembered, small things, like how the lighting had made Aziraphale shine when they had been stood on top of the wall of Eden.  
He drew the angel, resting, he wasn't sure if he was asleep or not. He drew every curl, paying special attention to the ones that were framing his face like the halo he knew he had. He had been so lost in drawing that he didn't notice Aziraphale open his eyes and watch him.  
“What are you doing?” his voice cracked like the fire making Crowley jump. He closed the book quickly as Aziraphale stood up.  
“Writing something down.”  
“No you weren't.” he said as he walked over, unaware of the blush that was slowly covering Crowley's face.  
“Angel, don't.” Crowley said, putting the notebook away. At the tone Aziraphale stopped and took a step back. At some point Crowley would feel comfortable with showing Aziraphale his art, but that day was not it. “Do you want some coffee?”  
“Isn't that illegal?”  
“100 years ago Angel.” Crowley said as he got up and walked towards the kitchen. Aziraphale watched after him, tempted to look at the notebook on the side but decided he didn't want to risk their friendship.  
The kettle was an old iron thing that was slowly turning black from the constant use. Crowley filled it with water from the tap he had put in a century earlier and put the kettle on the hob. He leant against the counter, fiddling with the frills of his sleeves. He was nervous.  
The kettle started to whistle and Crowley turned, pouring it into the cups that he had taken from the nearly empty cupboard. He walked out of the kitchen with them and handed one of them to Aziraphale.  
“I don't know how you take it.” he said as he sat down on his chair. Aziraphale took a sip and scrunched up his face. “There's sugar in the other room.” he said. Aziraphale turned and walked into the kitchen. It was a few minutes before Crowley got up and walked into the kitchen. Aziraphale was really close to finding it, but he was getting frustrated.  
Crowley walked over and pressed his hand against the angels back, letting him know he was there, as he opened the cupboard above him and pulled out the small sugar sculpture.  
“Here.” he said before pulling out a knife and cutting off a small amount before scraping it into the cup. Aziraphale took a sip before smiling.  
“Better. Thank you my dear.” he said as he turned around, realising how close they were Crowley took a step back.  
“Not a problem Angel.” he replied before walking back to the living room and sitting down.  
They stayed sat there for the rest of the night, the fire warming the house and drying their clothes. They were happy with each others company, talking of the old days and when they had last seen each other. Eventually the storm passed and Aziraphale, no longer cold and damp, got up to leave.  
“Stay safe angel.” Crowley called as he reached the door.  
“I always do my dear.” he replied before leaving.


	2. Books, Wine, Stories, and Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley gets a song stuck in his head that no one remembers.

1763  
Crowley hummed low, something Aziraphale vaguely recognised. Crowley continued, ignoring the look the angel was giving him, before letting out a low growl that almost sounded like a hiss and hit his head against the table.  
“You alright my dear?”  
“No, I have a song stuck in my head. And no one else knows it.” he said. There was a pause before he started humming again, biting it off with another hiss.  
“Maybe I know it.”  
“I doubt it angel, not exactly your type of song.” Crowley replied, looking up from the table at the angel.  
“You could at least try.”  
“Fine.” he said before sitting up and running a hand through his loose hair. They were at Aziraphale's home, Crowley had been helping him set it up. They had carried so many books into his shop they were both sore.  
“Well?”  
“In Brunton town there lived a farmer, who had two sons and one daughter dear.” his voice wasn't what Aziraphale had expected, it was low and rumbled deep in his chest, Aziraphale swore he could feel the table vibrate.  
“One told his secrets to no other but to his brother this he said, I think our servant courts our sister, I think they have mind to wed.” he continued, making Aziraphale perk up.  
“Oh I recognise it.” he said with that smile of his that made Crowley feel warm and loved. “That's from the 1400s is it not?”  
“I think so.” he replied after a moment. He continued to sing, no longer needing to, but he enjoyed seeing Aziraphale's reaction.  
“Oh when he rose the very next morning, went searching for the servant-man. And when he found him this young man he murdered, oh left him lying in the briars around. Oh she went to bed a-crying and lamenting and thinking of her own true love.” he took a breath and smiled.  
Aziraphale joined in, having been humming along. His voice was pleasant, higher than his, it reminded Crowley of a bird in the morning.  
“And as she slept she dreamt that she saw him a-lying in the countryside all covered with gore and blood. Oh brothers, brothers why do you whisper. And what's become of this servant man? Oh we lost him when we were a-contending, we lost him were he won't ever be found. Oh she early rose the very next morning and searched the countryside around. And there she saw her own dear jewel A-lying in the briars where he'd been found. Three days and nights she'd lie by him. She thought her heart it would break with woe when a cruel hunger came upon her And in despair to her home she did go.” at some point they had started to sway, their shadows dancing along the shelves of books, as though listening to them sing.  
“ Oh sister, sister why do you whisper and won't you tell us where you've been. Stand off, stand off you bloody butchers my love and I you have all slain.”  
They finished and looked at each other.  
“I didn't think you'd know it. It's a song about murder after all.” Crowley said, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a swig.  
“Is it? I would say it was about love.” he replied, joining Crowley in a drink. “Why was that in your head, it's been 3 centuries since I last heard it.”  
“I don't know angel, sometimes I just remember things. Sometimes I don't want to.” he said, his eyes growing dark towards the end of the sentence.  
“I think we both share that.” Aziraphale replied gently. There was a pause, unsure what to say into the silence.  
“What's your worst memory?” Aziraphale asked.  
Crowley's mind immediately went to the woman who gave him the blanket. She had been so scared and covered in buboes. The baby she had handed had been barely more than a skeleton, the plague taking its toll on them. Crowley, of course, had been immune to the disease. So he told him.  
“Yes, the plague was awful. Was that one of yours?”  
“Possibly. I don't remember. I certainly didn't.” he said, looking into the glass like it held the answers to life. He swirled the wine before downing the remains. “What's yours?” he asked, taking off his glasses.  
Aziraphale thought for a moment, there were so many bad ones.  
“What happened to Hypatia, she was a smart woman. I had helped teach her Greek, in secret. She had such a beautiful mind, I barely understood how it worked. And they killed her, for trying to learn more.” he said, looking deep into his glass.  
“I only knew her in passing, I had heard what had happened. I hadn't known you had taught her.” Crowley said, reaching out and placing his hand on Aziraphale's, putting the cup down. “I can't imagine how hard that had been.”  
They stayed like that for a moment that dragged to a minute. They said nothing, and anything that they did say was lost to the stacks of books and wine.


	3. Nightmares, Babling, and reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a nightmare and ends up at Aziraphale's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI the language they are speaking for the most part is Tamil, which I am not fluent in at all, so if anything is wrong with the translations do tell me.

1786  
He was falling. His wings were beyond broken, feathers pulling from the base. His throat was sore from the screaming that had been forced from him. He was close to the end now, he could see the earth. He didn't want the impact, he knew that it would hurt, a new feeling recently created.   
He hit the ground and felt every bone break. Everything was too much, it hurt to breathe. Every grain of sand around him felt like a dagger working its way into his skin. A claw racked down his back and he screamed.  
Crowley woke up and ran a hand through his hair.  
“இல்லை இது உண்மையானதல்ல.” (No this isn't real.) he said, leaning against his knees and trying desperately not to fall back into the nightmare. He could feel his heart pounding, so hard it almost made his whole body move. He stayed like that for a moment before getting up and grabbing his coat from the side.  
“இதை ஏமாற்றுங்கள்.”( Fuck this) he said as he pulled it on and started out the house. He needed some air.  
It was cold and dark, exactly what he needed to start to calm down.  
“இது உண்மையான குரோலி அல்ல, அது எப்படி நடந்தது என்பதல்ல.” (It's not real Crowley, and that's not how it happened.) he muttered, not looking up from the floor and continuing to walk. He was fiddling with his fingers, picking at the skin there.  
He could still feel the ache where his bones had broken. The force he had hit the ground was enough to have shattered every bone in his body. It would have killed a human a 100 times over. He could still feel the claws that had grabbed him and pulled him down to hell.  
“விழுங்க.” (Fuck) his voice shook as he looked up. He hadn't noticed where he had been walking and found himself outside Aziraphale's book store. He opened the door and stepped inside.  
“Crowley?”  
“Ssiraphale.” he replied as he walked towards the voice of his closest friend. He was at the back of the shop but he had started toward the front when he had heard Crowley.  
Aziraphale had recognised the tone, Crowley was tired and the last time he had heard that tone had been nearly 100 years ago.  
“What's wrong?” he asked as the demon rounded the stack.  
“நான் சொல்ல விரும்பவில்லை.” (I don't want to say.) came his reply as he walked over to the angel and rested his head on his shoulder.  
“சரி.” (Alright.) he replied gently hugging his friend, rubbing his thumbs in circles on Crowley's shoulder blades. At this point Aziraphale knew what had happened, he had had a nightmare. And a bad one at that.  
“நான் என்ன சொல்வது?” (What do you want me to say?) he asked quietly, the sound lost to anyone other than the two of them.  
“இது உண்மையானது என்று.” (That this is real.) Crowley replied, his voice cracking. Aziraphale pulled back and looked at him before gently smiling. He reached forwards and tucked some of Crowley's hair behind his ear.  
“இது உண்மையானது.” (This is real.) he said, leaving his hand there so Crowley could feel the heat, he knew that it helped centre him in the present. Eventually he moved his hand, brushing his fingers through Crowley's hair.  
“இது உண்மையானது.” (This is real.) he repeated, running his hands down Crowley's shoulders and arms, reaching his hands and lacing their fingers together. Crowley leant forwards and rested his head on the angel's shoulder again. “நீங்கள் இங்கே இருக்கிறீர்கள்.நீங்கள் இருக்கிறீர்கள்.” (You're here. You're present.) His voice was still quiet, as if Crowley was an animal easily startled, and in a way he was.  
“நன்றி.”( Thank you.) Crowley said with a yawn. He didn't need sleep, but when things mentally exhausted him, he often would go to sleep. And being immortal this lead to missing a few important things, like most of the Spanish Inquisition.  
“இப்போது நீங்கள் எப்படி உணருகிறீர்கள்?” (How are you feeling?) he asked, he didn't want to ask about the nightmare, he already knew what it was, what it always was.  
“சோர்வாக. ஆனால் சிறந்தது.” (Tired, but better.)  
Aziraphale smiled gently before stepping backwards, making Crowley look up at him.  
“தேவதை?” (Angel?)  
“நீங்கள் தூங்குவதற்கு மாடிக்குச் செல்லுங்கள்.” (Let's go upstairs so you can sleep.)  
Crowley flinched, taking a half step back.  
“நான் உங்களுடன் தங்குவேன்.” (I'll stay with you.) He replied, Crowley calmed at this. “உங்களை நிறுவனமாக வைத்திருங்கள்.” (Keep you company.) he continued. Crowley nodded slowly as Aziraphale started towards the stairs that led to the home above.  
Aziraphale's home was full of a lot of first copies, signed by the author, and a few scrolls he had saved from ancient times. Crowley recognised a few of them as ones he had given him over the years. Aziraphale's bed was made with white sheets and had probably been used twice since he had bought it. Crowley waked over and fell onto the bed. Aziraphale laughed at this before sitting down in the chair opposite the bed.  
“நீங்கள் விரும்பினால் நான் இங்கேயே இருப்பேன்.” (I'll stay here if you want.)  
“தயவுசெய்து தேவதை.” (Please Angel.) Crowley replied, his voice muffled by the pillow. Aziraphale smiled before grabbing a book from the side and starting to read.  
“நீ என்ன படித்துக்கொண்டிருக்கிறாய்" (What are you reading?) Crowley asked, turning to look at Aziraphale, his hair already messy from the small amount of contact with the pillow.  
“சாசர்.” (Chaucer.) he replied. Crowley groaned and rolled over, away from the angel.  
“அக் சாசர்.” (Ugh, Chaucer.) Crowley's voice was muffled by the pillows again. “என்னை கொஞ்சம் படியுங்கள், அது எப்போதும் என்னை தூங்க அனுப்புகிறது.” (Read me some, it always sends me to sleep.)  
Aziraphale let out a small laugh before starting to read from the page he was on, immediately translating the middle English to the Tamil they had been speaking.  
“ஒரு ஏழை விதவை, வயதில் ஓரளவு முன்னேறியது, ஒரு காலத்தில் ஒரு சிறிய குடிசையில் வசித்து வந்தார்.” (A poor widow, somewhat advanced in age, was once dwelling in a small cottage.) Aziraphale started to read the poem he had been on, he found it somewhat amusing that it happened to be called 'The Nun's Priest's Tale.'  
Eventually Crowley fell asleep, his legs half out the blanket, his shoes having been kicked off the moment his eyes laid sight on the bed. Aziraphale smiled and stopped reading aloud, instead reading silently, keeping the promise he had made to Crowley. He had every intention of keeping Crowley company.


	4. Drugs, Comfort, and an unexplained feeling.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale finds Crowley in a drug house.

1812  
“Crowley?” Aziraphale's voice broke through the haze. Crowley looked at the vague shape of Aziraphale as he walked closer. He shook the demons shoulders. “What are you doing here?” he asked, spotting the pipe next to him. He picked it up and took a sniff. Opium. “Oh, Crowley.”  
He put it down on the table and pulled Crowley off the bed, holding his arm over his shoulder. He walked them slowly out of the 'establishment' and walked to the road.   
Crowley stood up suddenly and pulled his arm off Aziraphale.  
“I don't need your help.” his voice wavered and cracked as he staggered. Aziraphale grabbed him before he fell to the floor.  
“Sure you don't.” he said as he pulled him up. “Lets get you home.” he continued, pulling him back over his shoulder and continuing down the road. He knew the route by heart now. Crowley's house had been demolished, it no longer fitted with the aesthetic that London wanted, and it was a fire hazard.  
Crowley let him lead him down the road, fighting back a shiver as he pulled his coat tighter around him. He had undone some of the buttons to his shirt whilst he had been there, in a vain attempt to be more comfortable.  
“You should sober up, if you can.” Aziraphale said as Crowley's house came into view, still down the hill from where they stood.  
“I'd rather wait till we're at my house. Messy.” his voice was slurred, but the cool air was sobering him up slowly, putting the world back together.  
They were silent for the rest of the walk, Aziraphale reaching into Crowley's pocket and pulling out the key to open the door.  
“Sober up.” Aziraphale said as they entered the house. Crowley threw his coat onto the chair and walked into the kitchen before letting out a low groan. Aziraphale stood in the doorway, there in case Crowley needed him. Which he had done in the past when the angel had found him in such establishment's.  
Crowley's knees buckled and his elbows hit the rim of the sink as he threw up into the porcelain thing. Aziraphale was there, behind him, in an instant, his hand on the small of his back rubbing gentle circles there.  
“Are you alright?” even though he knew the answer.  
“Peachy.” Crowley replied after spitting into the sink. Aziraphale let out a small huff before miracling a glass of water which he handed to the indisposed demon. Crowley took it and drank it, swirling it in his mouth before spitting it out.  
“Why were you there, this time?” there was no judgement in his tone, they had both seen terrible shit, he understood completely.  
“I was in France, just to say I was there, claim it for hell. Nasty, pushing mob, baying for blood, didn't seem to matter whose. So many kids going without food, dying in the streets. I- i- I kept seeing it- seeing them when I closed my eyes. I needed something.” he said as he started to shake.  
He stepped backwards as the shaking worsened. Aziraphale had seen this a few times, in humans who were addicted. Withdrawal. Crowley let out a groan which turned into a hiss as the pain flared causing him to stumble. Aziraphale grabbed him again, helping him steady himself.  
“Go lay down. You have a bed I assume.”  
“Yes. Fine.” Crowley replied through clenched teeth that were slowly turning more and more into a snakes fangs. He hated being in pain, he hated that it almost always made him become more demonic, he knew without looking in that damned mirror he had hanging in the entryway that his eyes were showing their full slitted glory.  
“Crowley, you're-”  
“If the next words out of your mouth are 'through withdrawal' I am kicking you out of this damned house.” he spat. He didn't mean to. Aziraphale knew that.  
“They were going to be in pain, actually.” he said as Crowley started to stumble towards the staircase that lead to his room. “Let me help you.”  
Crowley went to protest, but the angel already had his arm around him in an attempt to support him. They walked up the stairs, a small feat as they were very narrow, and opened the door to Crowley's room. He pulled himself off of the angel and stumbled towards the bed, falling on it bodily.   
Aziraphale stared at him as he stared up at the ceiling before closing his eyes tightly and writhing on the bed. Crowley looked like an angel from a renaissance painting, Aziraphale was sure he had posed for some of them. Crowley bit off a hiss that sent shivers down Aziraphale's spine, the unbuttoned shirt wasn't helping with Aziraphale understanding the feelings he was experiencing. His friend was in pain, why was he feeling like this.  
“What's wrong, my dear?” he asked, shaking his head and stepping towards the bed.  
“I sobered up, now I'm going through-” he paused as he bit a scream. “ Withdrawal. All at once.” he said, grabbing at the sheets. Aziraphale couldn't stand it any longer and placed a hand on Crowley's knee, sitting down next to him as the miracle worked on his body. The demon let out a low groan in surprise as all the pain vanished from his bones.  
“Fuck.” he let out unintentionally as he looked up at the angel. “I should get high around you more often.” he said, his voice still breathy as he sat up slowly.  
“Please don't.” Aziraphale. “I don't know how many miracles a demon's body can take.”  
“I was an angel, angel.” his voice was softer than earlier. “I think my body can handle a few more miracles.” he said, his voice taking a tone that made Aziraphale feel flustered.  
“I should leave. Book shop to tend to.” Aziraphale said as he got up quickly. Crowley cringed, he was still coming down, even though he had sobered up, he was still feeling the effect.  
“Angel, I'm sorry.” he said making the angel turn. Aziraphale smiled.  
“It's alright, I just wished we could meet other ways.” he said before turning back around and walking down the stairs.  
“So do I, but there is no way you're ready for the ways I want to meet you.” he said quietly to himself. He felt his face flush at the thought before falling back onto the bed and staring up at the ceiling.


	5. Gunsmoke, Wine, and Tales of fun times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young woman runs into the book shop for protection and starts a conversation that leads to a drunken night full of fun memories.

1823  
The door to Aziraphale's shop was thrown open and slammed shut quickly. A figure was stood in the door, almost knocking over a stack of books. They reached out to steady the books before running into the stacks. Aziraphale walked towards the person who was muttering quietly, respectful of the few people browsing the stacks.  
“Can I help you?” Aziraphale asked, making the young woman turn. She was fiddling with her gloves and Aziraphale noticed that they were soaked with blood. “Are you alright, dear?” he asked stepping closer.  
The young woman nodded, though her shaking hands said otherwise, as did the way she was looking to the door.  
“A man's following me, he wants to kill me.” she said. Her voice was calm, as though it was a known fact and she had become used to it. The door opened loudly, knocking over the pile of books the young woman had stilled, and the people inside the shop jumped.  
“Amaryllis Potter!” the man yelled. The woman, Amaryllis, turned towards him, stilling at Aziraphale's hand on her shoulder.  
“You said he wanted to kill you.”  
“I don't want him to kill anyone else.” her accent started to slip, becoming broader and more London.  
“So you'd risk your life.”  
“If I had ta, yeah.” she replied, turning around and pulling herself free and walking a few steps as the man rounded the corner.  
“Found you. Now I get to take care of you, like you did for my brother.” he said pointing a revolver at her. Aziraphale jumped at the sight of the gun, stepping forwards.  
“You're not allowed guns here.” he said, as if that would stop the single minded man. The man looked at him like he was an idiot before raising the revolver so that it was level with the young woman.  
Aziraphale stepped forwards and put himself between the young woman and angered man.  
“I will not have you killing people in my store.” he said, his voice more firm than previously.  
“How are you going to stop me you pansy?” he asked before firing the gun. Aziraphale stumbled backwards, falling into the young woman behind him. She caught him, putting him down slowly. Aziraphale watched as she pulled something silver from her wrist and stepped closer to the man. There was a squelch and another shot and then the door opened and closed quickly.  
Amaryllis stood back over him, picking him up as he stared at her in shock. He had been shot. It shouldn't hurt him, he shouldn't be bleeding, he shouldn't be going into shock. But he was. He hadn't been shot before, he had managed to avoid it for the last hundred plus years. Aziraphale decided it hurt.  
“-you have a first aid kit?” her voice filtered in as she carried him into the back room.  
“Pardon?” his voice was croaky.  
“Do you have a first aid kit?” she asked, setting him down on the chair. It was leather and old, he had had it for nearly a hundred years. He thought, he had one, where was it?  
The door opened and Amaryllis turned to look at the person stood in the doorway, expecting the man from earlier. Aziraphale looked at the blurry figure.  
“Angel. What happened?” they asked, Aziraphale recognised the voice. Amaryllis answered quickly as she pulled something from a shelf.  
“He got shot.”  
“What?” Crowley. That's who the voice belonged to. Crowley stepped towards him as Amaryllis opened the box, pulling off her gloves.  
“You look pretty in that dress.” Aziraphale said, trying to calm the demon who was worrying. The dress was dark red with silver piping, though most of it was covered by the black cloak she was wearing.  
“We can talk about my dress later, when you're not shot.” Crowley said, her voice frayed. Amaryllis walked over and started to unbutton Aziraphale's waistcoat in an attempt to get to the bleeding wound.  
“That's weird.” she said when she got to the skin and saw that the blood there was shimmering slightly, almost gold in the light. Aziraphale looked at the wound and winced before making it suddenly vanish. Amaryllis stepped back, her hands raising inadvertently as she did so. Aziraphale sat up and raised his hand.  
“You will wake up thinking this was all a weird dream.” he said quickly before clicking his fingers. Amaryllis blinked before turning and picking up her gloves, leaving the book shop.  
Aziraphale and Crowley sat in silence for a moment before Aziraphale started to laugh.  
“Angel, what-?”  
“I'm sorry, I just, I just realised how trivial getting shot is. And how confusing that must have been for her.” he said when he stopped laughing. Crowley let out a small laugh before shaking her head.  
“Angel- uh- I don't remember what I was going to say.” Crowley trailed off.  
“I don't know why I found that so funny.” he said before laughing again.  
“You're going through shock Angel.”  
“Am I? That would make sense, what with me getting shot.” he said before laughing again. Crowley looked at him before squatting in front of him.  
“Aziraphale you're scaring me.” she said, placing a hand on his knee.  
“I'm sorry. I really am.” Aziraphale said, his breathing coming ragged as he stopped laughing.  
“Aziraphale, breathe, breathe Aziraphale.” Crowley said. Aziraphale followed the thinly veiled order and took some grounding breaths. This steadied him a bit. They sat in silence as Aziraphale breathed, calming down and becoming more aware of Crowley's hand on his knee.  
“I feel better now.” he said with a smile, gently clasping Crowley's hand.  
“You had me worried there.” Crowley replied with a smile. Aziraphale stared at him, just smiling, before he pulled his eyes away and cleared his throat.  
“That really is a lovely dress. Where did you get it?” Aziraphale asked, trying to ignore the blush that was creeping up his face.  
“Shop on Saville Row, I saw it and thought it looked pretty.”  
“You'll have to show me sometime.”  
“Yes, maybe you'll eventually get up to date with fashion.”  
Aziraphale snorted before getting up and buttoning his shirt.  
“But the past is so beautiful.” he said, turning back to face the demon as she stood. “Remember when you posed for that painting, oh who was it by, Leonardo Da Vinci?”  
“I've posed for many paintings angel, as have you.”  
“I don't know why anyone would want me to pose for them. I'm not exactly angelic.” he said, looking down at himself.  
“There was a whole period of time that says otherwise, Angel.” Crowley said with a small smile. Aziraphale laughed slightly. “I can only believe they saw you and thought, damn that man looks so out of touch with time he must be some immortal.”  
Aziraphale snorted and swatted at the demon.  
“At least my fashion is better than the 1400s.”  
“Well that doesn't take much.” Crowley said before jumping up, remembering something. “Oh, right. I brought some alcohol.” she said pulling at a bag Aziraphale hadn't noticed before. “A lovely gentlemen bought it for me, in an attempt to woo me. It didn't work but I kept the alcohol.” she continued with a smile.  
She pulled out the bottle and offered it to the angel.  
“Fancy sharing it with me?” she asked.  
“It would be a waste otherwise.”  
“Oh yes, I agree.” Crowley said, miracling a pair of glasses into existence. She poured the drink into the glasses and smiled over at the angel. “Question, what's the stupidest thing that has happened because you influenced someone?” Crowley asked, a playful glint in her eyes.  
“Oh definitely that time I started an argument that lead to Mozart, you remember him, writing a six piece cannon called Lick my arse.” Aziraphale said, taking the glass from her and sitting across from her. “Your's?”  
“Hmm. That time I got a group of pirate so drunk that they left their hats at the bar and then hijacked another ship to get replacements. I think I still have some of the hats. I looked quiet fetching in them.”  
“I can imagine. The pirate look would suit you.”  
They sat there, in the back room, talking about the past. About how Crowley had suggested naming a horse Potatoes, which had then been misinterpreted as Potoooooooo. About how Aziraphale had used the name Mary once, upon floundering for a name for 5 minutes, and had started a trend for the name. How the angel had been the one who pierced Shakespeare's ears, having done it to himself a few years prior. How Crowley was the one who started to call sausages 'bags of mystery' as a joke, but the name had stuck.  
They spent the rest of the night laughing and drinking, thinking of the silly things they had witnessed over the years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The silly historical things that are mentioned at the end are infact actually things that happened. I just added them causing them.


	6. Honeysuckle, Jasmine, and Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley gets over stimulated and they have to go sit under a tree for a while.

1838  
“Another queen on the throne of England, about time don't you say?” Crowley said in Aziraphale's ear, making the shorter of the two women turn.  
“Crowley, what are you doing here? I thought you were tempting someone in Canada.” Aziraphale said, pulling at the lace of her shawl.  
“I got bored, besides it's not everyday you see a coronation, especially of someone so young.” Crowley replied as she sent a glare at a young man who was staring at them. The man quickly turned away and Crowley linked her arm with Aziraphale's. “She won't be called Alexandrina though, will she? Not very British is it?”  
“I believe she's going by Victoria.” Aziraphale said, glancing at where there arms were linked. “A lot more British if you ask me.”  
“Queen Victoria, has a nice ring to it.” Crowley agreed. “How long until they try to get her to marry someone?” Crowley asked, looking down the road, trying to glimpse the carriage she knew was coming.  
“It wouldn't surprise me if they already were.” Aziraphale replied, also leaning forwards. “A lot of people already have opinions about her, saying she's childish.”  
“She's only 18.”  
“Exactly, I think she's been behaving as well as you can expect any 18 year old to.” Aziraphale continued as the carriage finally rounded the corner. The crowd surged forwards and the pair were pushed closer to the front. Crowley quickly steadied them both, arms snaking around Aziraphale to help her balance.  
The carriage was black with gold sculptures and embellishments surrounding painting on the panels of the doors. Inside was the young queen, she was beautiful, her hair pulled up neatly into a bun, and her throat decorated with diamonds that Aziraphale believed had belonged to another member of her family.  
Crowley opened her mouth to say something as the queen waved at the crowd. Crowley sucked in a breath as the crowd pushed forwards again, everyone wanting to get a look.  
Scents flooded Crowley's pallet, she normally tried not to scent like a snake, but it had been unintentional. Now all she could smell was the sweat and tobacco of the people that surrounded them. But there was something sweet that cut through, honeysuckle, jasmine, silk sheets. Aziraphale. Fuck, Crowley could have gone her entire life without knowing what the angel smelt like, but right now, all she wanted was to be surrounded by that scent.  
“Are you alright?”  
Crowley closed her mouth but she could still practically see the scents floating around the angel.  
“Crowley?” a gentle touch on her arm. It was too much, that was exactly why she tried not to use her snake senses, it became too much. She saw the look the angel gave her and realised that the pinpricks she was feeing were her teeth becoming fangs.  
“We're leaving.” Aziraphale said, leading them through the crowd. Crowley let her lead the way, she couldn't really complain, she couldn't really think. There was too much information reaching her. She knew that the man to their left had just recently been to an opium den, that he had five cigars in his pocket, that he had an old wound on his left leg from fighting in the war. She also knew that the he found both of them attractive.  
Aziraphale lead them to the nearby park, finding the place furthest away from the road, sitting them down next to an old tree. The tree was old, and laden with pollen which Crowley could practically taste. She let out a low groan and pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her head there. Everything was too loud, and smelt too strong. She pressed her hands against her ears in a vein attempt to silence the world but it wasn't working. Aziraphale reached into the bag she had brought and pulled out a blanket, they had meant to use it for a picnic, wrapping the blanket it around Crowley's shoulders. The weight helped her ground herself. It was a newish blanket, it didn't yet smell like the angel.  
“Are you alright?” the question didn't have to be answered yet, but Aziraphale would like an answer.  
It was almost a minute before Crowley's senses started to return to normal.  
“Getting there, Angel.” her voice was quiet and it almost made her wince at the sound. Aziraphale smiled, looking away from her and out into the park. There was a faire going on in celebration of the coronation. They were far enough from the festivities that the sound barely reached them.  
“Thank you.” Crowley said, making Aziraphale smile again and turn to the other.  
“The least I could do.” she replied turning fully to face her friend. She knew it was easier for Crowley to focus when they faced each other. Crowley didn't know what it was about that small gesture, but it made her cry slightly.  
“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale moved towards her slowly. The angel put a hand gently on her shoulder and Crowley let out a small, wet laugh.  
“This is stupid.” she said, wiping at her tears before laughing again. “All this because some man had cigars in his pocket.” a lie. Obviously.  
“Really?”  
“I scented by accident. I was gonna say something but then the crowd moved.” she replied, pulling at the threads of the blanket in a vein attempt to calm down further. Aziraphale let her, even though every part of her was telling her to stop the demon, it was new.  
“We can go back to your home, if you want.”  
“No.” Crowley said after a pause. “No, I think I've calmed down now, I want to see the faire.” she continued, taking the blanket of with a shiver and handing it back to the angel. Aziraphale held it for a moment as Crowley stood before putting it back in the bag.  
“Shall we then?” she asked as she stood, offering her arm to the demon. Crowley took it with a wicked grin.  
“Arm and arm with a demon, what will heaven think?” she asked making the angel laugh before the idea actually processed. Aziraphale let go of her arm and Crowley mourned the loss of contact.  
They walked towards the faire, stalls had people milling around them, a band was playing further away. Aziraphale lead them towards it, drawn to the music. The band was having fun whilst playing, children were dancing around happily, spinning in circles around their equally happy parents.  
“Do you want some ice cream?” Aziraphale asked, gesturing at the small cart with a queue of a few people. Crowley nodded, making her way through the dancing children. One of them span into her and fell hard onto the floor. Both the angel and demon reached down to pick up the child, Aziraphale miracling the scrape on her knee away.  
“You're okay.” Crowley said with a smile at the child who smiled before running off to join her brother. She turned and smiled at Aziraphale after the child left. “Thank you.”  
“Just a minor miracle, least I could do. Didn't want her crying. Especially since you were like that earlier.”  
“Thank you.” Crowley said after a moment, just staring at the angel who was smiling at her.  
“Ice cream?”  
“Yes.” Crowley said with a shake of her head in an attempt to focus on the question. Aziraphale smiled before walking over to the ice cream cart and buying two scoops of vanilla, handing one to the demon.  
“Do you think she'll be a good queen?” Aziraphale asked, it took a moment for the demon to realise that a question had been asked.  
“Uh, yeah. I think she'll do fine. Just hope she listens to the right people.” Crowley replied with a smile as they started towards a free bench by the band, sitting down next to each other. “Do you?”  
“Yes. She seems like she will be.” Aziraphale replied.  
They sat in silence, listening to the music from the band as the church bells rang. She had been crowned. Welcome to the Victorian era.


	7. Snow, Snakes, and fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is in danger, barely holding onto her form. Aziraphale finds her frozen on his doorstep and carried her to his bedroom, wrapping her in blankets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MENTIONS OF RAPE.  
> Just though I'd warn yall of that.

1852  
Crowley shook with the effort it took to remain human. Her whole body was sore and covered in rapidly forming bruises. She wished she could sober up, but she had no idea what had been put in that drink, so she couldn't. Whatever it was it was strong. She had only managed to get to the alleyway before throwing up repeatedly. Then the men had found her, hunched over, shivering in the cold.  
She blanched. Sex can be nice, fun even, but that hadn't been sex. She shivered and pulled her ripped cloak around her as she stumbled, tripping on the snow bank.  
She could see Aziraphale's shop from where she was stood in the alleyway, there was, however, the small matter of getting there. She pulled herself up and used the wall to help her towards the end of the alley, as if she couldn't see. Even though her eyes were perfect for night she was having trouble seeing, it must have been what they put in the drink.   
She caught herself as she fell, walking the last few steps to the door.  
“Aziraphale please be home.” she said, wrapping her sore knuckles against the door. There was no reply so she tried again, harder. “Aziraphale please.” her voice was barely audible to herself. If things had been different she could have clicked her fingers and the doors would open, but that drug, that was it, they had drugged her, was making the world spin the wrong way.  
She closed her eyes against the wave of dizzinesses that washed over her and sat down slowly, leaning against the door. A shiver and then she felt the scales creeping up her cheeks and her tongue forking in her mouth. She couldn't fight it anymore. In an instant she was a small snake, curled up in her clothes next to the door. She was cold.  
Too cold.  
She fell asleep.

She woke up buried in warm blankets. She was still sore, but at least she was warm, she could work with that. She slowly started to what she assumed was an edge when she heard a door open. The footsteps that followed were familiar, but they seemed frantic. The blankets shifted and she started slowly to the disturbance.  
“Are you awake under there Crowley?”  
“Just about.” she thought, pushing it into his mind. She couldn't speak as a snake, they didn't have the ability to, so why would she? A gentle hand stroked her side through the blankets, she could feel his heat and burrowed towards him.  
“Are you warm enough, I can get another blanket-”  
“I'm fine.”  
“You were solid when I found you. What were you doing at my doorstep as a snake, in the middle of a snowstorm my dear?” he asked, running his fingers up and down her back.  
“I needed help.” she admitted, trying hard to fight back the shiver that those fingers caused.  
“Help, why?”  
“I- I'm pretty sure I was drugged.”  
“You've had drugs before Crowley.” his hand stopped, his voice taking on a concerned tone.  
“When I wanted to, at the amount I wanted to.” she replied before letting out a sigh and forcing herself to regain humanity. Her head popped out from under the blankets and Aziraphale ran his hand through her hair without thinking.  
“What happened?” the angel asked, gently combing through a tangle with his fingers.  
“I think someone put something in my drink. I started to feel sick so I left but they followed me. They raped me the bastards. I fought as hard I cou-”  
Aziraphale's hand had stilled in her hair, she could see a glow coming from his eyes, blue slowly burning white like fire.  
“Who did this to you?” his voice echoed around the room, it wasn't his voice, not really. He had heard something close to this when they had met on the wall of Eden, but not this.  
“I don't remember.” her voice was quiet, even to her own ears. “I was drugged.” she said, her hand reaching for the angel's in her hair. “Aziraphale, don't get yourself worked up over this, please.” she said as Aziraphale let go and got up slowly, as if in a trance.  
Crowley moved to get up, to follow him, but didn't even make it to her elbows before she let out a low groan. This brought Aziraphale back to her instantly. The fire in his eyes died, though she could still feel the anger radiating off him in waves.  
“Where does it hurt?” he asked, his voice gentle but shaky.  
“Everywhere.” she replied.  
“Would a bath help?” he asked. Crowley nodded. Aziraphale stood up and offered her a hand which she took slowly. Standing up was a slow process, as Aziraphale had said, she had been frozen nearly solid, her joints ached, as did other parts. Where her effort had been in particular.  
“I'm going to smite them if I find them.” Aziraphale said, barely containing his fury.  
“They were already going to hell.” she replied as she took a stumbling step. Aziraphale caught her and picked her up in his arms like she weighed nothing.  
“I hope when they get there you get to see there face and torture them.” Aziraphale said, a darkness to him Crowley hadn't seen since the burning of the library of Alexandria. She let out a small laugh.  
“I hope so too.” she said as Aziraphale carried her to the bathroom, placing her on the chair before snapping his fingers. The bath was filled with warm water in an instant.   
“Is this alright?” he asked. Crowley stood slowly and walked towards the bath, she could feel the heat on her bare legs. She run her hand through the water and smiled.  
“It's perfect, thank you.” she said before slowly getting into the bath, she let out a sigh as the warmth encased her. Aziraphale sat down next to the bath, watching her.  
“How do you feel?”  
“Better now. But I don't think it's safe enough to be a woman anymore.” she said before shifting her body in the bath.  
“I think I agree with you there.” Aziraphale said before getting up on his knees and walking/ crawling behind her. His hands tangled in her hair and she let out a low groan as he started to massage her head and neck, eventually moving to her shoulders. “Did that help at all?” he asked when he was finished.  
“Yes.” and it had, her shoulder were much less sore and she was much less focussed on the pain.  
“I'll get you some clothes, if you want.”  
“I don't want your clothes, they're out of date.” she teased. “Besides, I think I'll try out being a guy again.” she said, her voice changing in pitch as their body rearranged. They grew taller slightly, less curvy and more angular. “How do I look?”  
“Like you need a haircut.” Aziraphale replied, hands still in the demon's hair. With a click of his fingers the hair fell away, becoming more fashionable for a man to wear.  
“Better?” he asked, turning to look at the angel over his shoulder.  
“Better. I could have cut it for you.”  
“I know, but I want to get out of this bath and go home and sleep of a decade.” Crowley said, a smile gracing his lips.  
“Fine, come on then, out you get.” he said, offering the demon his hands. When Crowley stood up he couldn't help but smile at the glare Aziraphale was sending his way. “Did you miracle yourself taller than me?”  
“Maybe.”  
“You bastard.” he replied with a grin before stepping away. “Well, you cant leave naked, and you don't want my clothes, so I suggest you miracle yourself some clothes.”  
“Yeah alright.” Crowley said before snapping his fingers. A smart button up shirt, a tie, and a warm coat wrapped around him. He buried his face in the fabric of the coat, it was soft and he didn't want to admit it but it reminded him of Aziraphale's hair.  
“I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me.”  
“You were there when I needed you. If you hadn't show up you have a frozen, dead, demon on you doorstep. Thank you Aziraphale.” he said before walkinf out the door, stopping and turning on his heel. He walked back to the angel and hugged him tightly. “Thank you. For being you.”  
“Always.” he replied, gently rubbing the demons back. Crowley stepped away and walked back out the door. Aziraphale waited until he heard the bell ring and the door close before letting his humanity fall away.  
He stood in the bathroom, well, floated, wings flying out as his eyes burned white. He walked towards the window before throwing it open. Pity anyone he came across that night.


	8. Mayfair, Alcohol, and Agar Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1862, need I say more really. Ya'll knew what happened then.

1862

Crowley stood there, trying desperately to stop the rage that was shaking his core. He felt the cane splinter in his hand and he dropped it to the floor before turning away and walking back to his house.  
Anyone that had been in his path jumped out of the way. He was intimidating normally, but today, after that, he was pissed. He walked to his house and threw open the door, not caring that it had been previously locked. What Aziraphale had said bounced around in his head, that one word. Fraternising. It infuriated him.  
He glared at the mirror, it had moved with him when he had moved house. He couldn't stand it, all he could see was that word floating around his head. He punched it and the glass shattered, breaking into thousands of pieces on his floor.  
“Fraternising.” his voice was raw. “Fraternising!” he threw the broken frame to the floor. He wanted to be angry, wanted to throw and break things because he knew that if he didn't he would break himself. He knew that the latter was ineffable, but he wanted to be angry first.   
He grabbed the nearest pitcher and threw it into the fire, making the fire jump up. He threw anything he could find, sketchbook after sketchbook, going up in flames instantly. He grabbed something and stopped as it caught his eyes.  
A gift for Aziraphale.  
He broke.  
He fell to the floor and held it to his chest. He didn't realise when he started crying, but he did recognise the keening sound that was coming from him. He folded in on himself, somehow making himself smaller.  
“Is that what we've been doing, fraternising?” he keened. His wings broke through of the shirt and drew close to him. The space around him grew dark as his wings closed out the light, rocking with his movements.  
When he finally moved the fire had long burned out. It had been days. He stood slowly, his muscles sore from holding the position for such a long time. He put the book down, it hit the chair with a dull thud. He moved like a ghost, like he was part way out of his body, no longer attached. He picked up the mess he made and put it away. When he was done he sat in the chair and stared at the empty fire.  
“Fraternising.” he said, his voice sore and slurring the word. He stared at the fire for another hour before snapping himself out of it and getting up. He grabbed a small stack of ageing paper letters and carried them with him. He went to throw them in the fireplace but stopped, faltering. He pulled it back and held it to his chest, smelling the must of the old paper. It smelt like Aziraphale's shop.  
He didn't want to burn them, but he didn't want to have that reminder staring at him every time he rolled over in his bed. He looked around the room before grabbing one of the few sketchbooks that hadn't been eaten by the fire. He tied them up and put them down as he grabbed his coat. He picked them up and carried them gently as he walked out of the house.  
He ran through the list of people he could give them to, for safe keeping. There was Shakespeare, no he had died over two centuries ago. There was that girl who had attempted to heal Aziraphale after he had been shot. The miracle the angel had performed would probably have worn off by now. She might recognise him. Wait, hadn't he been a woman then? What was her name anyway?  
He walked aimlessly for an hour before stopping suddenly.  
“Amaryllis Potter. That's what her name was.” he said before starting towards the road, her knew where she lived, because of course he did, he kept tabs on most of the people they miracled.  
He walked, he needed to feel something, and at the moment the closest emotion and feeling was pain. It was an hours walk to her house, across the river to Westminster.  
It wasn't a fancy house, like the ones in Mayfair, but it wasn't a slum like other places. He walked up the stairs and rapped on the glass pane before putting down the stack of papers, letters really. He turned and started back towards the path as the door opened.  
“Can I help you?” a girls voice, younger than the one he remembered in the shop. He turned on his heel and looked at her. She was small, probably around 5” maybe 13 years old, though age was hard to guess for someone like him.  
“Um, this is where Amaryllis Potter lives, correct?”  
The young girl nodded, stepping in front of the door. Crowley walked back up the steps and picked up the small pile of paper.  
“I was wondering if she could look after these for me. They were for a friend, but he's not my friend anymore.”  
“What happened?” she asked, cocking her head to the side curiously.  
“We got into an argument.”  
“That's no good. My friend Jennifer and I had an argument, but she apologised. Maybe your friend will do too.”  
“I hope so. Until then, can she look after these for me?” he asked, holding out the letters for the girl to take.  
“Sure, I'll let my grandmother know. How did you know her?” she asked, taking them and holding them gently in her hands before placing them behind her back.  
“We met, almost 40 years ago I think. She helped my friend when he got hurt.”  
“The same friend?”  
“Yes.”  
“A long friendship. He'll apologise, that's what friends do. If he doesn't he doesn't deserve to be your friend. You seem nice.”  
Crowley smiled before putting his hands behind his back, fiddling with his gloves.  
“Thank you- uh, what's your name?”  
“Anabella Potter. I'm Amaryllis's grandaughter. We're visiting from Surrey.” she said with a smile. “I hope you have a nice day.” she said before stepping behind the door.  
“Have a safe journey back to Surrey.” he said earning a smile from the girl before she closed the door.   
He stepped back down the stairs and into the crowd on the path that was ever present in London. He didn't know what to do now, he had completed his goal, now he was cut loose. He walked back the way he had come, stopping into one of the pubs, barely glancing at the name. 'The Hanover Arms.'  
He drank pint after pint of ale, not caring that it was mid morning, nor that the ale was warm. It was nearing midnight before the landlord kicked him onto the street. He stumbled back towards his home, making it to the Thames before he looked into the water and changed his mind. He crossed the bridge, it had recently been opened. He'd have to look at it properly some day, but not today.   
People were yelling, harking there wares, be it hats, food, or their bodies. There were lanterns, swinging like falling stars, illuminating the faces of the people as he passed. He felt a hand reach into his pocket and he grabbed the wrist tightly, yanking it out and glaring at the young boy. He shrunk in on himself and pulled away, twisting his wrist away from Crowley's hand.  
Crowley let go and continued across the bridge, furrowing in his pocket for a farthing for the toll. He threw it at the man at the booth, walking towards the gardens on the other side. They had been renamed recently, Victoria something or other.  
He had an idea of where he wanted to go. It would take him over an hour to get there sober, longer in his current state. Agar Town. It was a slum on some posh dead cunts land. It was as messy as he felt he deserved.  
He stopped after a while, leaning against a stone column, and stared at the garden. He knew where he was now, Parliament Square Garden. He had been there when the building had been built. So had Aziraphale. He shook his head and continued on, past the houses of Parlaiment.  
He didn't stop until he reached 36 Craven Street. He had been there a century ago, talking with Benjamin Franklin over a bottle of warm wine they had bought that morning. He continued walking, crossing the Strand and walking up Charing Cross road. He could have taken the train, there were a few stations near where he wanted to go, but he didn't want to talk to people, not tonight.  
The night got darker, the further from the Thames he got. The Thames was the life blood of the city, it relied on it. It had done since the dawn of time, Crowley had seen it go from a small town to being abandoned when the emperor had left, then seen its population diminish due to plague. Had seen it grow again and then watched it burn to the ground. He had had to drag Aziraphale from his shop that night. It hadn't been a shop then, not yet, it was just a storage space. After that the city had only grown bigger and busier, no longer made of wood the houses had gotten taller, 3 stories, 4.  
Crowley's focused returned on Hampstead Road, staring into the trees of the garden across the road.  
“Penny for your thoughts?” a voice asked making Crowley turn. A hand pressed against his chest, hugging him, grabbing him, pulling him towards her.  
“Not tonight pet.” he said, pulling away. He didn't want company. He wanted a bottle and a bed. Hell it didn't have to be a bed, the fucking floor would do. She let him go momentarily before spinning him around, pulling at his tie. “Don't.” he continued, grabbing his tie and walking away.  
He walked past the bars and pubs on Camden High street, the noise was almost too much for him. He tried to zone it out, fiddling with his gloves as he walked past them, towards the river. Regent's Canal, sorry. From there it wasn't far to Agar town.  
He walked inside the small inn that had been made from leftover material. The woman at the bar recognised him instantly.  
“Master Crowley. We weren't expecting you.”  
“Neither was I.” he replied as he pulled off his gloves and shoved them in his pockets as the woman rounded the bar and walked towards him. She opened her arms in an offered hug which he accepted. Her name was Olivette. He had met her 3 years ago, after a particularly painful temptation. She wasn't a friend, an acquaintance was as far as he would say.  
“I think your room is clear.” she said when she stepped backwards. He nodded before grabbing a bottle from the bar and walking up the stairs. He didn't say anything as he opened the bottle and took a long swig.  
“Crowley, you're already drunk.”  
“Fuck off Olivette.” he replied before stumbling towards a room at the end of the second floor hallway. He pushed open the door and started towards the fireplace that was roaring in the corner. He sat down on the floor next to it and cuddled the bottle to his chest. “Fraternising.” the word fell of his forked tongue, quickly followed by a sob. He downed the bottle before getting up and stumbling to the bed that was little more than a cot.   
He fell face first onto it and didn't wake up for a week. When he did he walked down the stairs, grabbed another bottle and paid for both that and his stay before walking back to his home.


	9. Salt water, Alcohol, and babies crying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A temptation that has a ripple effect.

1865

The gunshot was still spinning around her head, bouncing around and hitting all the corners. She had done her bit, but that didn't mean she had to like the outcome. She swirled the whisky in its chipped glass before downing it. She put it down hard and waved for another, the bartender filled the glass again before walking over to another patron.  
“I should have guessed this was you.”  
Aziraphale.  
Crowley turned to look at the angel who was standing awkwardly behind her. He didn't move to sit down.  
“I was told to get him drunk. I didn't want this either.” she replied before turning back to the bar. “Whiskey?”  
“No thank you. Here on business. Can't stay.” he said, and Crowley knew he was wringing his hands without looking over her shoulder.  
“Right.”  
They stood there in awkward silence as the rest of the bar around them bustled with people talking about the assassination.  
“What do you-”  
“I just need you to understand. I can't and I won't give you the holy water. Not because I don't trust you-”  
“Then why angel?” she asked, turning to face the man dressed in all white.  
“I couldn't bare to see you hurt.”  
“I wouldn't- It wasn't for that.” Crowley said, trying not to get angry. She drank the remnants of the whisky before putting the glass down.  
“Accidents happen, I don't want to loose you to an accident.” Aziraphale said, still fiddling with his cuffs.  
“I would have been careful.” she said clenching her jaw around the words.  
“I know, I just-” he cut off before looking up, as though hearing something. “I have to leave.” he said before walking back out of the door. Crowley let out a huff before ordering another whisky.  
“Was that an apology or something?” the bartender asked.  
“I think it was meant to be.” Crowley said as the bartender filled up her glass.  
“Do I want to know what for?”  
“No.” Crowley said. The bartender nodded before going back to one of the other patrons.  
Crowley let out a sigh before looking down at the bar, running her fingernails over the chipping veneer. Everything about the bar was old, from the chipped glasses to the scuffed wooden floor, but it did nothing to ease the pain Crowley was feeling. She was old, she hadn't felt this old in a long time. If she were a building she would have been ruins a long time ago, she would have been little more than dust, a memory written about in old books in even older libraries.  
She downed the whisky and got up before paying. The Bartender looked up as she left, the change in temperature sending goosebumps up her arms. She pulled her coat closer around her as she walked, read stumbled, down the road.  
She was renting a small apartment across the river, it was as old as the street it was built on. She stumbled in the vague direction of it, ignoring the loud throng of people that were spreading the news like hell fire. The President had been assassinated, as if Crowley didn't already know that. She walked around the Smithsonian, a few buildings that had been built in recent years, or at least recent for Crowley, and continued down to where she needed to cross the channel.  
She leant over the railing and looked into the grey water, it would be cold this time of year. April. Sure it was spring, but tell the water that. She could feel the cold breeze coming off of it, almost taste the salt coming from it. Crowley opened her mouth and pulled in the scent, the alcohol from earlier had sent her head spinning.  
Salt water mixing with fresh. Whiskey. Ale. Vodka. Vomit. Tree pollen. Fresh baking. A roaring fire some roads away. Bird shit. Her other senses joined, she could hear church bells some way away, harking a new hour. A bartender yelling at some drunks. A door slamming shut. A baby crying, desperate for some food.  
Crowley walked towards the baby, she could hear it in an alley way. She grabbed a lantern that was hanging from a doorway and lit it before walking down the alley. She held the light high above her head.  
“Hello?” she called into the darkness. A tired voice replied.  
“Here.”  
Crowley turned and walked towards her, miracling a small purse into her hand. The woman was wearing little more than a chemise and a corset. She was darker skinned and covered in dirt, she looked like she hadn't eaten in a few weeks.  
Crowley crouched down in front of her, putting the lantern down, and handed the woman the small purse.  
“Have this.” she said before offering her arms to hold the baby. The woman let her, she was busy staring at the money. Crowley cooed at the child, bouncing them gently until they stopped crying and started to grab at her red hair. “We should get you both something to eat.” Crowley said, standing up and offering the woman a hand. The woman accepted it and pulled herself up.  
They walked the remaining distance to Crowley's apartment, ignoring the no negro's sign and going up the stairs where Crowley opened the door to her apartment. She pushed it open and there was a plate of food waiting for her on the side.  
“Eat up.” she said, the woman walked over and started to eat with her hands, eating as fast as she could. Crowley had a feeling she had had her food taken away from her many times. Crowley miracled a small bottle of milk, warm to the touch, and dipper her finger in before giving it to the baby. The baby sucked on it until her finger was dry.  
Crowley smiled before walking over the the counter and grabbing a hankey from the side, dipping it in the milk, letting it soak up, before wrapping it around her finger and pressing it into the babes mouth. They sat in silence, apart from Crowley humming low to sooth the child, as they ate.  
“You can stay here if you want, I've paid the rent for the month.” Crowley said into the silence. The woman looked up from her hands.  
“I couldn't ma'am.” she said, licking her fingers clean. “It said no-”  
“You will stay.” she put a bit of demon into it. Technically this was breaking the law. “I'll talk to the landlord.” she continued. The woman nodded. Crowley stood up, bouncing the baby on her shoulder before putting the baby down on the bed.  
“I never learnt your name.”  
“Georgiana Freeman. Her name is Amelia.” she replied, her voice was less raw than earlier. “I'm sorry, I ate like an animal-”  
“No, it's fine. You probably had your food taken from you before. You can have a bath too if you want.” the demon replied, gesturing to the metal tub. “And my clothes, fuck everything if you want. I'm leaving tomorrow.” she said as the woman, Georgiana, yawned.  
“I would rather sleep than wash right now. If that's alright.”  
“That's fine.” Crowley replied. “Go ahead, I need to talk to the landlord.” Crowley said as she stood from the side of the bed. Georgiana walked over to the bed and sat down next to her.  
“Where will you sleep?”  
“I don't sleep.” she said with a smile. “You get some sleep. Stay here.” she said, doing up her coat. Georgiana nodded, tired and full for the first time in months Crowley assumed, and laid down on the bed.  
Crowley smiled and left the apartment, going down the flight of stairs to the landlords room. She knocked on the door before pressing it open. She walked into the room and kicked the mans feet off the chair he was leaning them against.  
“Mr Phipps, I'm leaving.” She said as soon as he jolted awake. “A lady called Georgiana Freeman is taking my room. You are going to let her stay, and you are going to take down your no negroes sign.” she said putting a little bit of demon into the command.  
“Of course Miss Crowley.” he said with a nod. He was easy to manipulate, even easier to tempt, which she had done several times.   
She walked back out of the room and into the night.  
She clicked her fingers.  
She was suddenly stood outside her old house. She pressed the door open, knowing that it was locked but not caring, and stepped inside. There was still some glass on the floor from where she had shattered the mirror 3 years prior. She walked over it and to her bedroom, lying down on the bed. She stared up at the ceiling.   
She hadn't been back to England for a while.


	10. Gas, Men, and Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tempted a man to eat a sandwich and now the rest of the world is paying the price.

1915  
“Leave him.” she hissed, the words barely audible over the gunshots and mortar fire. The young man didn't move at her words so she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him backwards, towards her. He fought her then, struggling against her, clawing desperately at her arms.  
“I cant leave him there.” he said, his voice broken.  
“I don't care. Its that or die. Do you want to die? Don't you have a wife back home?” she said before pulling him back into the trench, pinning him to the muddy ground. He writhed against her, still trying to get back to his friend. “He's in a better place.” a lie to get him to calm down.  
He calmed slightly, stilling beneath her.  
“You want to go home.” the temptation rolled easily off her tongue. She had used that particular temptation too many damn times in the last year.  
“I want to go home.” his voice sounded like a scared child, and she wasn't surprised. He should be scared, he should be terrified, hell she was.  
She let him up, crawling out of the mud, and lead him towards the small medical tent that was so bright against the dark night.  
“Go in there, get healed up, I'll get your friend. The man in there will see that you get home to your wife.” she said, stopping outside the tent.  
“Thank you Antonia.” he said, grabbing at her muddy uniform. She smiled at him before he turned and walked into the tent.  
She stayed there for a moment, watching as the man inside looked up from the person he was healing. He was dressed smartly, his normal blazer was laying over the back of a chair, his sleeves were rolled up and his white hair was pushed back from his face. She knew that he would do what was needed, he always did. She smiled, a barely there thing, as he walked over to the soldier. They sat down and spoke for a bit before she decided to leave.  
She walked back to the front, ducking into the trenches as the mortar fire started up again. She was going to have nightmares about that damn sound. She was sure of it. She walked towards the mudslicked steps and climbed them quickly.  
“Are you mad!” a hand on her leg pulling her back. “Antonia, you can't go up there, you'll get killed.” a man named Sargent Pettyfer. She pulled her leg free and tried not to kick him. He was only trying to help her, she knew that.  
“I'll be fine.” she replied as she pulled herself out of the trench only to be met with a round of gunfire inches from her face. “Shit.” she muttered before starting the crawl to the pile of bodies that were all that remained of squad 51. They weren't that far from the trench, but the mud made it seem like they were miles away, as did the mortar fire.  
She grabbed one of the bodies by the trousers and started to pull it towards her. No not it, they were a human, who had a name. Who had a family. She grabbed him and pulled him back towards the trench, getting up so that she could move him easier. A mortar landed at her feet and sent them both toppling over, knocking off her glasses, shattering them as she landed on them. The man landed heavily on her, winding her. She sucked in a breath through her mouth. Big mistake.  
Rot, blood, mud, ash, gunpowder, all filled her pallet. She retched and rolled onto her side, throwing up the little amount of food she had eaten recently. She had seen war before, but it had been personal then, this was different. This was murder on a grand scale.  
She wiped her hand across her mouth, attempting to wipe away the vomit but only spreading mud further. She grabbed the man again and pulled him towards the steps, her eyesight improving now that her glasses had been destroyed.  
“You're mad.” Sargent.  
“Shut up and help me you cunt!” she yelled back, trying not to look at him, she was well aware that her eyes were bright yellow and fully blown. The sergeant grabbed the man and pulled him down in to the trench, grabbing at her arm before she pulled it away hard.  
“There are more out there.”  
“You'll get killed Crowley.” he said.  
“I'd like to see them bloody try.” she replied with a hiss as she pulled back and grabbed another man from the pile. She did this for hours, grabbing men, pulling them the small distance to the trench where the sergeant would pull them into the safety. They lied down on the floor, mud flecks dark on their white skin.  
The last man took a long time to get to the trench, or at least it felt like forever. They were still aiming at her, she could feel the vague pain in her calves from the bullet wounds that had ripped through her. She handed the man to the sergeant before getting down, ducking down as a mortar landed at the edge of the trench.  
Dirt flew everywhere as her legs finally gave way under her. She fell into the mud next to the bodies that she had carried and took in some shaky breaths. She regretted it again. The smell was still eating at her.  
Rot, burnt flesh, the metallic tang of blood. She rested her head against her knees and let out a low groan, as though she had a headache. She did. She then sucked in another breath, through her nose so as not to scent.  
“You're mad, you know that Antonia?”  
“Been told that every day of my damned life.” she said with a dry smile. Sargent Pettyfer sat down next to her and pulled out a flask from his pocket, he offered it to her. She took it before taking a swig.  
“You should get them checked out.” he said, gesturing vaguely to the bullet wounds.  
“I'll be fine.” she replied.  
“No, you're going to the medical tent or I am getting Ezra here.” Sargent said, as if the tone of his voice would have any effect on her.  
“No you won't. You'll make sure that all your men are seen to and that they are all given orders away from the front.” she said, the temptation rolling off her tongue lazily.  
“I'll go do that.” he said getting up, leaving her with the flask. She downed the contents before resting her head back against her knees. She stayed like that for what felt like hours, it was hard to tell when the sky was near impossible to see through the mud and blood.  
The cold had started to seep into her bones when a man with a wheel barrow arrived to take the bodies to a better resting place. He put a hand on her shoulder and she stirred.  
“Oh, you're alive.” he said, startled.  
“Yeah.” she said, looking up at him. “Not sure how.”  
“Not sure any of us are anymore. Home by Christmas they said, so much for that.” he said, she could practically taste the bitterness in his voice. “Its always something like that, home before something. It'll last a year at most. They'll forget all about it in a month.” he sucked in a shaky breath. He had clearly had this building for a while and just needed to vent. Crowley let him. “Tell that to the men dying in the trenches. Women too.” he hastened to add.  
“It's always the same, rich men paying for poorer men to fight for them.” Crowley replied as the man started to load the bodies onto the wheelbarrow.  
“You say that like you've seen war before.”  
“Too many.” she said with a dry, empty laugh. “What time is it?” she asked before stretching. The man paused to free his wrist.  
“Little after 3 in the morning. Once I've done this I'm having something to eat, do you want to join me?” he asked. She considered it.  
“No, I think I'll stay out here, keep watch.”  
“If you are who I think you are, you've been keeping watch for almost as long as this war's been going on, you and Mr Ezra. I'm surprised you haven't run into each other.” he said.  
“I'm trying to avoid him.”  
“Really, why? No offence but the way you look at him from the outside of the tent, makes it look like there was something there. But he's a bit older than you.”  
“We're the same age actually. We just aged differently.” she replied, unable to help the fond smile. “We had an argument, some time ago now.” she continued, looking up at the stars now that the mortar rain had calmed down.  
“What about, if you don't mind my asking?” he asked, sitting down next to her in the mud. She shuffled to accommodate him.  
“I wanted him to get me something.” and it was the truth. She just wasn't sure how she would tell him if he pressed further, but for now it would have to do. He sat there, staring at the mud for a moment before speaking.  
“Were you and him-” he paused, “courting.” he asked finally.  
“Uh-” how should she describe their relationship? A friend for 6000 years lead to a weird relationship. “No, but we might as well have been.” she continued  
They sat in silence before the man got up and patted his trousers down in an attempt to rid them of mud but only making it worse. He let out a sigh before he stood up straight, looking over the top of the trench for a second before going white.  
“Run. Now.” he said, letting go of the wheelbarrow and pulling her up.  
“What?”  
“I don't know how, but they've moved there guns closer, they're gonna attack. Now.” he said, raising his voice over the now much louder gunfire. Then something landed in the trench and Crowley stared at it. She had no idea what it was but it was hissing and releasing a nasty garlicky smell. She opened her mouth and pulled the scent in before the feeling registered. Poison gas.  
She got up and ran, grabbing the man by the wrist and pulling him after her. She didn't care that she was running faster than a human should be able to, she needed to get him out of here. She could feel her throat constricting and she heard him starting to cough, though it was quickly covered by the sound of machine guns.  
She pulled him into the nearest room that had been cut out from the ground and pressed herself against the door, letting out a low hiss as the bullets cut into her back. She could taste the gas as it started to come through the ply board door, she tried to remind herself that she didn't need to breathe.  
“Gas mask, now.” she hissed, clamping her eyes shut against the pain. She opened them for a second, looking around the darkened room, trying desperately to see a mask. Somehow the man found one before she did and went to put it on her face as a heavy boot kicked the door.  
“Yourself first.” she hissed, turning away from his hands, his eyes caught hers and he flinched. “Put it on yourself first.” she said, tempted really. He did so as another kick almost knocked Crowley over.  
She spread her legs open slightly and pushed her weight into her feet, bracing against the door. Making it a stronger hold and maybe putting a bit of demonic strength into it.  
Someone cursed in German and another round of bullets bit into her back. This continued for hours before there were answering bullets followed by shouts in English and German. She got up and opened the door, throwing them off balance, before falling over as she registered the amount of blood she had lost.  
“Antonia!” Sargent Pettyfer, pulling her up from the mud. “Where ha- have you been here all night?” he asked as he ran his hands over her arms, in the way that suggested he was questioning his eyes. “I think you need to go to Ezra.”  
“No- I'm fine.” she noticed that her voice was slurring, she was struggling to get back to human.   
“No, you are going to Ezra and you are getting the bullets wounds seen to.” he said, turning her around and pressing her against the mud wall as a mortar round went off. At least she thought it was a mortar until it started hissing.  
“Gas!” the other man yelled.  
“George, get her out of here, how she hasn't died I'm amazed.”   
“I'm fin-”  
“Now!”  
And so the man, George, took her deeper into the trenches. She followed, blinded by the sudden light, and fighting desperately to get her eyes back to just the yellow irises. They ran past men, young and old, in different stages of wariness, all ready to fight the germans.  
“Ezr- Mr Fell. Open up.” George said as he knocked on the door to the old school building. He didn't wait for an answer before he opened the door. Inside Ezra was busy with the men on beds, if Crowley relaxed her eyes she could see the healing aura he was giving off, could almost see his wings covering the man he was tending to.  
“Az- I-”  
Aziraphale turned to look at them then, a stunned look shooting over his face before Crowley stepped forwards and hugged him. She hadn't seen him since 1865 and hadn't expected to see him there in the trenches. She had seen him in passing in the trenches but tonight had actually scared her and all she wanted was a familiar face right now.  
“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked, letting Crowley cling to his shirt, his own hands reaching up to the demons back. “You're hurt.”  
“I'm fine.” she said, and she was, because her world had started to piece itself back together and the lines between demon and human were no longer blurred. Aziraphale miracled them away and Crowley let out a sob unintentionally at the gentle kindness. “I'm sorry. I am truly sorry.” she said.  
“It's alright.” Aziraphale said, pulling her closer. “I'm glad you're alright. I take it this wasn't your doing.”  
“I made a guy get a sandwich, so unfortunately it kinda is.”  
“Beg your pardon.”  
“I'll explain it all, just, can you hold me right now?” she asked as she started to shake, whether it was the cold, gas, or adrenaline leaving her was hard to tell. Aziraphale nodded and held her close as the world around them started to get too loud for Crowley to handle.  
“I thought you wouldn't be able to look at me after- that.”  
“Neither did I, but, the idea of you getting hurt- the last time you got shot you went into shock. I don't want you getting discorporated.”  
“I don't want to either. It's fine, we'll be safe. I'll see to that.” Aziraphale said before letting go and releasing a miracle that healed the people in the room. Crowley relished in the feeling, the warmth as it washed over her. And she trusted him. She always trusted him, there argument half a century ago hadn't changed that.


	11. Phillip, Valentina, and Emily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war took its toll on a certain demon and he eventually rocks up to Aziraphale's shop and falls asleep.

1945  
Crowley tapped his feet as he stared at the ghost of a man on the bench opposite him. He knew he was a ghost, he had seen him as he had died, that's how he had attached himself to Crowley.  
“Where does she live?” he asked the man who looked up from his hands, he still seemed to be amazed that he could actually see through them.  
“Soho.” his voice sounded like it was coming through a radio, it was full of static. “Opposite that fuck old bookshop, A.Z Fell or something like that.”  
Crowley smiled at that. He was glad that he had fixed things with the angel, else this might have been awkward.  
“Well if that's the case, we should get off here.” he said before standing up and stretching. He grabbed his bag from the rack above him and walked towards the nearest door. He hadn't been on the tube since before the first world war, lots of stations had been destroyed in the blitz.  
When the train stopped at Tottenham court road Crowley tried not to breath in the sweat of the people waiting for the train. He got off and started towards the stairs, chucking a guinea into an old mans hat as he passed. He heard the man thank him before he managed to get to the surface.  
The fresh air was welcoming. It was home. Sure it was full of pollutants, but it was nowhere near as bad as the air on the train had been, or that of the medic tent. Or that of Brussels under siege. Or France. Or the air when one of the guns went off and deafened everyone.  
It wasn't a long walk to Greek street, Crowley desperately wanted to pop into the shop and get drunk with the angel, but he had to do this first. He had to. The man had risked his life for him.  
The man, Phillip Turner, had been a soldier with Crowley. They had been out on patrol at night, scouting out the Germans, tallying them. But then one of the Germans had been on guard duty and had seen them and raised the alarm. Then they had had all their rifles pointed at them and Phillip had push Crowley out of the way and told him to leg it. Crowley had, assuming he would follow, but he had turned back and saw his body get peppered with bullet holes. He had stopped and stared then, his eyes blowing wide as he dropped to his knees. He knew he was dying and he could do fuck all about it. He was a demon, not an angel. He'd already saved Aziraphale's books from the nazi's, that was as much as he feared he could get away with. He held him as he sucked in a bloody breath.  
“Anthony? She lives there.” Phillip's voice drew him out of it. He shook slightly before turning and looking at the house he was pointing at. It was 4 stories tall and he knew that it was flats, it had been since the 20s, though which he wasn't sure.  
He crossed the street and knocked on the door, putting his hands in his pockets for lack of a better place, his fingers running over the grain of the pockets watch that lay inside.  
An old woman answered the door slowly.  
“Yes?”  
“I'm looking for Florence, I have something for her.” he said, rolling onto the balls of his feet.  
“3rd floor love.” she said before stepping back and letting him in. Crowley tipped his hat before taking it off as he entered.  
“Thank you.” he said before starting towards the stairs. They were wooden and Crowley was amazed that they had survived the blitz 3 years ago. He walked up the stairs wearily, he was tired. He was using a small miracle to keep Phillip visible to himself and no one else.  
A woman was stood by one of the door on the third floor, juggling her bags and her purse.  
“That's her.”  
Crowley walked over and cleared his throat, startling her and making her drop one of her grocery bags. He caught it and held it for her to take back.  
“Can I help you sir?” she asked, finally freeing her keys and placing them in the lock.  
“I believe I have something for you, if your name is Florence Valentina.” he replied. She look at him with questioning brown eyes before nodding.  
“Thats me.”  
“My name is Anthony Jay Crowley, I was in the same squadron as Phillip.” she opened her mouth to say something before shifting her bags and pushing open the door.  
“Well Anthony, I think you should come inside.” she said before dissapearing inside the flat. Crowley followed inside, trying to not seem imposing. He was at least a foot taller than this woman, and he was still wearing the uniform he had been given. He was also aware of the aura he was giving off, it was small, but he could normally control it. It was why she had bungled her bags earlier.  
The flat was small, it reminded him of his old house, the one that had burnt down in 1666. It was restrictive. There were several vases of flowers on the counter, Crowley could smell them the moment he stepped through the door. Forget-me-nots, daisies, cyclamen, and hyacinth. There was also that letter, telegram, on the table. Unopened. He couldn't blame her, he knew what it was without even opening it, she didn't need to either.  
“Anthony?”  
“Right.” he pulled his head to face her and reached into his pocket. “I- I was with him when he died. He-” a shaky breath “he was protecting me when he died. We were out on a reccy, counting how many there were. But they woke up and show at us.” he thumbed the watch in his pocket, turning it over and over repeatedly, attemtping to rid himself of the knot in his throat.  
“I don't really remember what happened after, but I do remember carrying him to the trenches.” A lie. He knew exactly what had happened. He remembered everything. He remembered the way his fangs peirced his lips, how his eyes had tracked every movement. How he had left Phillip's body and coiled himself up, ready to strike. How he had bit into their throats, how their blood had felt as it trickled down his chin. How he had grabbed one of their rifles and strangled them with it before shooting the others. He remembered how the gunpowder hung so heavy in the air he could taste it. How only after they were all dead had he returned to his senses and picked up Phillip and carried him to the med tent.  
“He wanted you to have this.” he said, clearing his throat. He pulled out the pocket watch, he had cleaned it when he had gotten his hands on fresh, clean water, so it no longer had his blood on it. She stared at it in his hand before holding her own out and accepting it.  
“I didn't get anything of his when the news came in. It all went to his parents, they barely wanted to look at me. Hell I get looks just going to the shop and buying my rations. You'd think I was the entirety of Italy. I've never even stepped foot in in Italy.” she turned the watch over in her hand. “Sorry, you don't want to here about my problems. Would you like something to drink?” she asked, putting down her bag and starting to put the groceries away.  
“No, I cant stay. I'll be honest Miss, I just want to go home. It's been a long day.” he said, watching Phillip walk around the room, running his hands over the dust that had accumulated on the radio.  
“Right. Of course. Thank you.”  
“Thank you.” Phillip echoed, turning to look at Crowley again.  
“Not a problem. I am sorry for your loss.” he said before putting his hands back into his pockets and clawing at the fabric inside. “I'll be going then.”  
“Yes of course.” she said quickly putting the bag down and walking towards the door. She opened it and let him out before closing it behind him.  
He walked down the stairs and tried to stop his hands from shaking against the bannister. He let out a sigh when he saw the door, pushing it open and leaning against it as it closed. He raised his hands to his head and took of his hat, running his hands through his hair as he tried not to cry.  
“Crowley?” footsteps then a shadow falling over him and a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and was glad for the familiar face.  
“Aziraphale.”  
“Are you alright?”  
“Not really.” he replied before standing up, making Aziraphale take a step backwards. He ran a hand through his hair again before putting his cap back on.  
“Who were you with just now?” Aziraphale asked, putting his hands back into his pockets.  
“A woman called Valentina-”  
“No, the young man.”  
“You could see him?”  
“What do you mean I could see him?” Aziraphale asked, looking up at the taller demon.  
“He wasn't there, not really. He was a ghost angel.”  
“A ghost?”  
“Yes. Something I know a lot about.” he said before crossing the road. Aziraphale followed after him, thanking the man in the car as he crossed.  
“You what?”  
“Not here angel. If we go inside we can talk, but I'm gonna need a lot of alcohol.” he said as the angel reached the door to his shop and opened it, letting the demon in.  
Crowley took of his cap and placed it on the coatstand just inside the door, before walking further into the shop. Aziraphale watched a shiver pass through the demon before oily black wings bloomed from his back. At least he thought they were black, the colour shifted with each step. Blues, green, and purples danced along the wings, with little flecks of white offsetting the dark.  
“Starling, correct?”  
He stopped midstretch and looked at the wings.  
“I guess they are. They were crow- they were crows once in the war. I think.”  
“They look like the night sky.” Aziraphale said, reaching and rearranging a stray feather. Crowley shivered and Aziraphale pulled back.  
“They're meant to. They remind me of who I was.” he said as he took his glasses of and threw them onto the table as he sat down on the sofa, letting his wings fold onto the floor.  
“Who you were?” Aziraphale asked as he sat down in the chair opposite him. Crowley nodded as he rubbed his temples.  
“Before I fell. I remember who I was, what I did, I just don't remember my name.”  
“That's hardly surprising. A name is a powerful thing, if you remembered that I don't think she'd be too happy.” he said with a pointed look up. Crowley knew he wasn't looking at the slowly moulding and termite ridden ceiling.   
“I'm not sure I want to know.”  
“If you don't mind my asking, what did you do?” Aziraphale asked, steepling his fingers.  
“I helped create the stars. An I guarded souls.”  
“Is that why you had a ghost with you?” Aziraphale asked, looking back the way they had came, as if hoping to see Phillip again.  
“Yes. He just wanted to get home, to her.” Crowley said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  
“Are you alright?”  
“Tired angel. It's not often I bring a ghost forward, I remember why now.”  
“I apologise but I don't know what you mean.” he said as he leant forwards in his chair, placing a hand on the distressed demon's knee.  
“When I said I was a guardian of souls, I meant many souls. 365,000 give or take.” he said as a shimmer appeared next to the demon. A young boy appeared for a second before flickering out.  
“If it would make you better, you can show them. No that's not the right word. You can manifest them.” Aziraphale said, not taking his hand off the demon's knee.  
“You wouldn't want that. They're little inquisitive shits. Some of them are from before the car.” Crowley said, looking up at the angel.  
“I wouldn't want my friend to be causing himself pain either.” he said meeting the yellow snake eyes that were slowly blowing wide. Crowley let out a sigh before his whole body shivered.  
A buzz filled the room, low and heavy, followed quickly by a blinding light that circled Crowley for a second before dispersing. Then the ghosts started to form. The young boy that had sat down next to him was the first one. Aziraphale swore he had seen him before. He had his head covered with what looked like a white cloth, and he wore loose clothing.  
Mesopotamia.   
That's where he had seen him. Running around chasing the goats, with his friends. He must have drowned. That's why there were phantom drops forming on the floor.  
Another two formed. Young girls with their hair in braids, both wearing soft hide dresses with fringing. They both looked tired and were dancing slowly, barley swaying from side to side. He had seen people dancing like that, that desperation and exhaustion, just over a hundred years ago. When he had been trying to get the native Americans to move. When he had been healing their ill and elderly, lending them an arm to lean on. They were doing the ghost dance he realised.  
More ghosts, each and everyone children, formed. They eventually surrounded them. They all were from different eras, some more modern others verging on ancient.  
“Mr Fell?” a voice like static called out. They both turned to find the voice before Crowley let out a sigh.  
“Come here Emily.” he said, gesturing to a young girl, little more than 7. she was wearing a peacoat and the hem of a skirt could be seen as she walked forwards. Crowley took her hand and she became more solid, colours gathering and filling her in.  
“Do I know you dear?” Aziraphale asked as he looked at the child, reaching out a hand to touch her cheek but only coming away with a soot stained hand.  
“I came here a few times with my mum. She liked the stories you told. So did I.” she said with a smile.  
“Looks like you've a fan Aziraphale.” Crowley said before she continued.  
“You're the last thing I remember before-” she paused. “Before the bombs.”  
“The bombs?”  
“Emily was killed in the blitz.” Crowley supplied.  
“Oh. Well I'm glad that I'm the last thing you remember. Is it a good memory?” he asked earning an enthusiastic nod.  
“Oh yes, you were helping me with my homework. We were talking about the Victorians.” she said with a smile. “Thank you.” she said before letting go of Crowley's hand and stepping towards the angel. She gave him a hug before stepping back into the mass of ghosts that were wondering around his shop, looking at books and knick-knacks.  
They slowly spoke to each of the ghosts, which Aziraphale enjoyed profusely as it allowed him to practise languages long turned to dust and legend. Some had died painfully and were still in pain, others had died peacefully. But most had gotten used to being with Crowley and seemed to enjoy his company.  
At some point alcohol came out and they spoke less and just enjoyed the company. Crowley eventually fell asleep and the ghosts weakened. Aziraphale stood up and grabbed a blanket from the side, draping it over the demon.  
“Sleep well.”


	12. Snow, snakes, and hot chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big freeze of 1962/63. In which Crowley is told that she might have to do something she doesn't want to. Again.

1963

Aziraphale pulled the cape like coat closer around her shoulders and shivered against the cold.  
“Lord, Crowley why did you want to meet in the middle of a blizzard.” she muttered under her breath as the cold wriggled inside her coat and settled in her bones. She pulled her scarf, little more than decoration really, to cover her mouth as she made it to the gate of St James' park. She knew exactly where Crowley had wanted to meet her, that didn't mean she had to like it.  
When she got there Crowley was huddled up in a coat that looked two times her size and was covering almost every inch of the demons skin. All that could really be seen of the demon was her short hair peaking out from a large scarf, and her red nose.  
“Crowley, why did you want to meet?” Aziraphale asked as she approached the taller woman, which was odd as normally Crowley's corporation was the same height as her. She looked down and saw knee high heeled boots. That would explain it.  
“I wanted to talk-”  
“If this is about the holy wate-”  
“For satans sake, can we not talk about the damned water? I haven't seen you in nearly 20 years and the first thing you say is 'if this is about the holy water.' did you consider I might want to spend this damned winter with the one person I might call a friend.” she hissed before jumping up and down in a vain attempt at keeping her freezing blood circulating.  
“I'm sorry.” the angel said as she pulled her hair free from her coat, letting the white curls tumble over her shoulders.  
“Don't be. The colds just getting to me. Snake after all.” Crowley said before pulling down the scarf to reveal the scales that had started to form around her jaw. Aziraphale couldn't help the small gasp that escaped her, it was so rare to see Crowley's scales. She was normally either wholly human or wholly snake.  
“Why did you want to meet here? We- you could've just come over to the bookshop.” Aziraphale asked as the snake shivered particularly hard. More scales crept up to her eyes. Aziraphale took off her scarf and wrapped it around her before reaching into her pocket and pulling out some bird seed.  
“I didn't want to assume. We haven't exactly been on the best of terms in the last century.”  
“We've known each other for nearly six millennia, I would rather have met you at my shop then out here in a blizzard.” she replied as she through the few ducks sat on the ice some seed. They ate it happily.  
“Even so angel. Somethings brewing, down below. I might have to do something that I don't like again.” Crowley said as she turned to face Aziraphale.  
“What do you mean? You're a demon-”  
“Do you think I enjoy half the stuff I am told to do? It's something to do with Kennedy, that much I know. If it falls to me I'll know more. Whatever happens, if it falls to me, stop me. I do not want another president's life on my hands.” she said. Aziraphale nodded.  
“Of course. Now will you come with me so that we can get you warm?” Aziraphale asked as she stepped in front of the demon. Crowley nodded before Aziraphale reached for her hand, she let the angel, unable to move much. Aziraphale let out a gasp as she felt how cold the demons hands were.  
“You're freezing.”  
“Wasn't that long ago you said otherwise.” her voice carrying the s far beyond the necessary limits.  
“Maybe so. But you are a snake and I don't want a frozen demon on my doorstop again, once is enough, thank you very much.” she said before leading them both back through the park. Crowley's hand was cold in hers as they reached the enterance to the park, though it couldn't really be seen through all the snow that was falling from the sky.  
It took several small miracles to get to the shop without falling over. When they got there Crowley pulled her hand free and pushed open the door. Aziraphale clicked her fingers and the shop warmed instantly, illiciting a long moan from the demon as she rubbed her hands together.  
“My flat is frozen, I don't think I could get into it if I miracled my way in. Even if I did I wouldn't get out.” she said as she pulled off her scarf and put it on the coatstand. Aziraphale smiled as she watched the demon's colour return to her face, and her scale slowly disappear back into her face.  
“Is the temperature alright? It's so cold outside I dont want you going into sho-” Crowley cut her off by placing her hands on her shoulders.  
“It's fine. I haven't been this warm since last summer.” she said and Aziraphale knew it was true. It hadn't stopped snowing since it started last December. Nor had it gone above 0. Crowley let go and walked towards the back of the shop, making her way towards the sofa and grabbing the blanket that had been thrown over the top since it had been placed in the shop.  
Aziraphale smiled at the demons back before walking past her and into the small kitchen, boiling the bright orange kettle.  
“What do you think this plan is then?” she asked as she grabbedtwo mugs from the cupboard. “You said it had something to do with Kennedy.”  
“Yes. I think it might be killing him. I can only imagine what that'd do for the war with Vietnam. Can't imagine anything good.” Came Crowley's reply from the other room. Aziraphale hummed.  
“Have you seen- have you seen how far they've come. With weapons I mean. Makes me regret giving them my swo-”  
“Don't say that. If you hadn't given Adam your sword they would have died before humanity left the garden. You know that Angel.” She said, her voice a lot closer. Aziraphale turned and looked at the demon who had wrapped herself in the blanket and was stood in the doorway.  
“I know, but- I was there a few years ago- they've invented this thing they're calling napalm. It-”  
“It's like hellfire. I know angel, I've seen it. Or atleast what it does to people. They practically melt. But that has nothing to do with you.” she stepped forwards and put her hands on Aziraphale's shoulders. “Look at me Aziraphale, It's not your fault. I gave them the right to chose, if it's either of ours its mine.” she said. Aziraphale shook her head profusely.  
“No its's not your fault!” she said, almost yelling.  
“Itsss not yourss either.” Crowley hissed as the kettle went off startling them both. Aziraphale sucked in a breath and rested her head on Crowley's shoulder. They stayed like that for a moment, Crowley moving her hands to rest on the back of the angel's neck.  
“Sorry.” Aziraphale said pulling back, turning away from the demon. “Its just the cold getting to me.” she said, pouring the hot water in the mugs, making them both a hot chocolate. She handed one to Crowley who smiled as she took the mug and held it close to her.  
“I'm sorry too, I shouldn't've yelled either.” she said before taking a sip of the drink. “Guess neither of us really like the cold.”  
“It's not normally this cold though.”  
“I know, but try telling the weather that,” Crowley said with a smirk. “I don't think it would listen.”


End file.
